Waltz 0f The Wallflower (Delicate Hearts Book 1)

by Catherine Mayfair

  Barnard laughed. “You cannot be serious,” he said. When William did not clarify, Barnard stared at him. “You are! Oh, William, really now…”

  “I could not be any more serious,” William interrupted before Barnard could go off on one of his tangents. “Clancy’s stories give us a source of amusement. That in itself keeps us wondering if there is any truth to them at all. No, as much as he does annoy me at times, I would like no other version of the man. Let us just say he adds a bit of color to an otherwise bland world.”

  Barnard seemed to consider this for a moment as he pursed his lips. Since his apology to William, he had returned to his old self in most ways, which was to say he had not changed much. However, there was something about the man, something that said he had learned from his previous mistakes. Sure, the man was still the most arrogant man William knew, but a kinder side to Barnard had surfaced. Now, if the man could only push away his feelings for Alice and move on with his life, all would be well in the world.

  “I suppose you are right,” Barnard finally said. He lifted his glass. “May Clancy remain the same, biscuit crumbs and all.”

  “Here, here!” William replied with a lift of his glass and a laugh. Then his eyes went to the clock. “Well, Barnard, my friend, though I wish to drink into the late hours with you, I am afraid I must bid you farewell.”

  “Are you leaving to have dinner with Alice?” Barnard asked, the anger in his voice unmistakable. Yes, he truly needed to let all thoughts of he and Alice and an imagined life together go, or it would leave him just a shell of a man.

  “I am,” William replied, though he made no comment of the man’s anger.

  “Good.” Barnard finished off the remainder of his drink and slammed the glass on the table. “Give her my regards.” His tone carried little benevolence.

  William was uncertain how to ease the anguish his friend carried. “I know you care for her,” he said in a quiet voice, “but she is spoken for by another.”

  “I know that,” Barnard hissed. “Do you think me ignorant?”

  “Not at all. But I see the pain you carry. I would advise you to let her go. It will do nothing to serve you in life and may hinder you from finding a suitable lady.”

  To his surprise, Barnard laughed. “A suitable lady?” he echoed, though when he said the words, they held a measure of acerbity. “Do you not realize that she was that lady?”

  “I understand…” William began before Barnard forestalled him.

  “No, you do not. Every night I wished for her to return to London. I imagined us attending parties together, taking strolls in the Park. And yet, some other man, a sheep farmer, no less, has bested me.”

  William stared at his friend. Never had he seen Barnard so honest about his feelings for a woman. Certainly, he had seen plenty of loathing for particular members of the ton who had aggrieved him in some way. He tried desperately to find the right words to console the man, but Barnard stormed toward the door.

  “Barnard, wait!”

  “What is it?” he asked, exasperation clear in his tone.

  “I will not pretend to understand the pain you feel, but I can imagine what it would do to me if I found Lydia in the arms of another man. If you truly care for Alice, and I believe you do, let her be happy, for if she is loved and cared for, you should be happy, as well.”

  It was quiet as neither man spoke for several moments. Then Barnard opened the door and left.

  William let out a heavy sigh, worried for his friend. He hoped the man would find someone else, and soon. A glance at the clock, however, told him he had no more time to fret. He had another old friend to see. Granted, this was the same woman who caused the pain Barnard carried, but there was little more William could do for the man. Therefore, he hurried upstairs to ready himself for dinner at Alice’s home.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The carriage jostled as it moved through the crowded London streets, and Lydia moved back the heavy blue drapes to peer out at those on the street. Numerous couples walked together, pleased smiles adorning their faces. Perhaps seeing them was an omen that the news she learned this evening would lay her fears to rest and she and William could move on with their courtship without apprehension to hold them back.

  “Do not worry,” Helen said. “In due time, we will learn the truth. Once it has been determined that William and this woman are not as they appear, we will be off to our philosophy club.”

  Lydia was glad the conversation had moved away from the inevitable confrontation with William. She had worried her lip to near bleeding waiting for Friday to come, and a reprieve was always welcome. “Do you believe Mr. Lancing genuinely wishes I lead one of the meetings?” she asked, still stunned by the letter she had received two days prior. Did the man have such confidence in her?

  Helen replied as if hearing Lydia’s spoken words as well as her thoughts. “I do. Do not worry, my dear. Mr. Lancing knows you have a sharp mind and a controlled tongue. You have a leader inside you, just you wait and see.”

  The short departure from that which caused her greatest apprehension was short-lived, for thoughts of William soon returned as the conversation dwindled. Lydia sighed. “Is what I am doing right?”

  “Agreeing to lead one of the upcoming meetings?” Helen asked. “I see no reason you should not.”

  “No, not the meeting. Am I right in going to the home of this woman to learn the truth? Maybe I should just ask him outright.”

  “No. We have plans in place for tonight; we simply are taking a small detour along the way. If we happen to be in front of this woman’s home when William arrives…” She shrugged.

  Finding where the woman lived had not been a difficult task. Helen simply asked while choosing a bolt of wool for a new cape, weaving it into the conversation as if it belonged. “If there is one thing one can count on, it is the loose tongue of a shopkeeper,” she had said when Lydia had questioned her. “However, the poor woman had no choice. More than likely she does not even remember mentioning it.” Yes, her aunt was a great manipulator when it was needed.

  Lydia pushed the memory away and sighed. “I suppose you are right. I believe the reason for my reluctance is that I do not want to face him.”

  “Fears are like that,” Helen said. “When I was a young girl, I fell from my horse. It scared me so that I did not want to go near a horse for years. Even those pulling the carriage made me tremble. Then, one day my father, your grandfather, told me that I must face my fear. Though I sobbed, I came to sit upon a horse once again.”

  Lydia put on a thoughtful expression. “So, what you are saying is that I should sit on the Duke?” When Helen’s eyes widened in shock, Lydia patted her arm. “I am only teasing.”

  Helen gave a relieved sigh and then laughed. “I’m going to miss you when you are wed. The talks we have, the secrets we share, our closeness.”

  “I am not yet wed,” Lydia said. “And it does not matter, for when I get married, you will join me in my new home.”

  “You are kind,” her aunt replied, “but I’m sure you and your husband would prefer not to have a widowed aunt living with them.”

  “William is a good man, and I know there will be no argument, not on his part nor yours. If my Aunt Helen cannot come with me, there will be no wedding.”

  “Do not say such nonsense,” Helen said with clear shock, which made Lydia laugh all the more. Her aunt reached over and hugged her. “Then I will join you if your husband allows it. Plus, it will get me out of your father’s house. I am sure he would relish the idea.”

  The carriage came to a sudden stop, and Lydia peered out the window. “Helen, look!”

  Helen joined her at the window, and they both watched a man dressed in servant’s livery on his knees in the middle of the street, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. Glaring down at him stood a woman in a faded yellow dress, her hands on her hips as a crowd of onlookers gathered to watch the drama unfold as eagerly as Lydia.

  “You think you c
an put yer ‘ands on any woman, do ye?” the woman shouted.

  “No, my love,” the man pleaded. “It wasn’t me! Twas the drink!”

  This seemed to enrage the woman as much as it entertained the crowd. “The drink, is it? Well then, Jimmy Porter, let me just beat that drink right outa ye!”

  Lydia gasped when the man rolled over to his side, not once but twice, jumped up, and began to run, the woman rushing after him, her hand raised in a fist. Several in the crowd laughed before moving on their way.

  “Only in London,” Helen said as she sat back in the seat. “I cannot imagine acts such as that happening in any other street of any other city.”

  Once the crowd had dispersed, the carriage continued its journey once again. Worry returned to Lydia, and she closed her eyes, wishing her fears to be unfounded. She also prayed the fighting couple was not another omen of what was to come this night.

  ***

  The home in which Alice Pendleton lived was located on Waymouth Street. William had always found her small home décor tasteful with prints of wildflowers that ran down the small entry hallway. Her butler, Canton, escorted William to the parlor, and Alice rose from the blue-striped couch and smiled.

  “William! I am so glad you were able to make it.” She put her arms around him, and he returned the embrace.

  “You look lovely,” he said as he pulled away. “I can see why Charles was quick to ask for your hand. If he had not, I would have.”

  “Oh, you,” she said, slapping at his arm playfully.

  He glanced around the room. Blue wallpaper with gold vines and birds covered the walls, and large windows looked out at the passing pedestrians and the few carriages that ambled through the tight street. “You know, I have always thought your home lovely.”

  “Thank you,” Alice replied. “I have not decided if I will keep it or sell it once I am married, but I can decide that later.” She smiled at him. “This night means so much to me. You are to meet Charles and celebrate our engagement with us. He will be here at any moment; he tends to run late.”

  William went to respond, but the sound of hurried feet rushing down the hallway stayed his tongue. Through the door burst a boy of four, his dark hair much like his mother’s and his light eyes clearly a gift from his father.

  “William!” the boy shouted as he threw himself into William’s arms. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Timothy!” his mother scolded. “His Grace does not need a boy jumping at him. He is a duke and deserves our respect.”

  William chuckled as he tightened his hold on the boy. “I am simply William, even if I am a duke, so if he wants to hug me, he can. And I have missed you, as well, young Timothy.” He pulled the boy away and looked him up and down. “My, but how you’ve certainly grown in the last year since I last saw you.”

  The boy drew himself up straight. “I’m nearly five now.”

  William lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, you’ll be old and decrepit like me in no time.”

  Timothy’s eyes went wide. “I’m never getting old.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I’ll spend all my days playing and…”

  “And doing your lessons,” Alice interrupted, much to Timothy’s chagrin if his frown indicated his feelings correctly.

  “I hear you are getting a new father.”

  “Oh, yes,” Timothy said. “Charles takes me fishing.”

  “Does he now?”

  “Yes. We can’t tonight, though. Mother said I have to be on my best behavior, or I can’t have any sweets.”

  “Your mother is wise,” William replied as he smiled at her.

  “Timothy,” Alice said as she smoothed his hair, “I must speak with William for a moment. Will you go to your room and see that you are dressed for dinner?”

  “Yes, Mother,” the boy said, and then he hugged William’s leg before hurrying out of the room.

  “He is growing too quickly,” Alice said as returned to her seat. “And Charles adores him. It makes me happy that the boy has a father again.”

  William sat beside her on the couch. “As it does me,” he replied. Then he took her hand. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” Alice replied, though her eyes were brimming with tears. “I just recall how devastated I was when George died. We had dreams…” She sighed. “Sadness filled my days until a friend came to help me through those hard times. You have no idea what you did for me. For us.” She gave a nod toward the door through which Timothy had left.

  “That is what friends do.”

  “No. Friends offer sympathy. You offered so much more. You offered your time, resources, but most of all your heart. Tonight is a celebration of the engagement of Charles and me, but also a bond of friendship. What I mean to say is thank you, my friend, once again for all you have done.” The tears that had been in her eyes splashed over her lashes, and William remembered the woman who had wept at the loss of her husband. What had begun as a simple request to escort her through the park with Timothy in his pram had turned into a lovely friendship, and he would do it again if the need arose—which he hoped would never arise again.

  “Now, no more of that,” he said as he produced a kerchief and dabbed her tears away. “Charles might think I said something to upset you.”

  They both gave a small laugh at this, and then she leaned in and embraced him.

  When she pulled away, she said, “Very well, I am done with crying. And with the past.”

  “Good,” William said with a smile. “For I, too, have a future that is unfolding, and I believe we both will be quite happy from this day forth.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Lydia recalled a time when she was eight years of age and she had bumped her elbow against their large dining table. The jolt of pain had spread from her teeth to her toes, and her elbow had gone numb. It was a strange feeling, as if her elbow had simply disappeared, leaving a hole in her arm. Unlike that accident, however, she knew the numbness she currently suffered, this time in her heart, would never go away.

  Somehow, she had managed not to weep as she sat outside the home on Waymouth Street as William embraced the woman she recognized from the dress shop. Nor did she cry out as he held the young boy who looked so much like William it brought an ache to Lydia’s insides. As the events unfolded on the other side of the wide window, the emotions Lydia suffered ranged anywhere from hope to desolation with each event. She had never felt the grand range of emotions in such a short amount of time in her life; however, by the time she left she wished she had never made the decision to spy, for she learned nothing from the act. She could try to convince herself that her plan had been to confront William outright, but she knew that was an untruth; her pretense had been to spy since Helen first conceived the idea.

  What could be taken from what she had seen? She knew not what words had been spoken, nor did she know the sentiment behind the embrace or the drying of the woman’s tears. Had he done as Helen had suggested and told the woman his heart was with another? Or had he expressed his love for her, bringing her to tears of joy rather than sorrow? The conjectures were worse than the possibility of loss, for they left her with no answers.

  Lydia could watch no longer. “Let us go,” she said. “I will learn nothing here. Regardless of the outcome, the feelings he has for this Alice Pendleton are strong. Plus, if we do not leave now, we will be late for our meeting.”

  Helen, however, did not mistake the poorly hidden excuse. “We have time if you would like to watch for a while longer.”

  “No,” Lydia said in a firm tone. “There is nothing more to learn here. I will decide what to make of what I have seen later. Let us be on our way.”

  Helen sighed and informed the driver to leave, giving him the address they used whenever they attended their philosophy meetings. Lady Meyers, indeed, was a woman with whom Helen had an acquaintance, but it had been years since she had hosted anything close to a quilting gathering. On occasion, the Dowager Countess joined
Lydia and Helen in their late-night excursions, and when she did not, she kept her lips firmly pursed of their whereabouts. Not that anyone had come asking, but Lydia had no doubt the woman would keep their secret. As to whether or not the woman had an interest in her father, Lydia did not know, but she would leave such stories to her aunt to manage.

  Lydia hoped that the meeting would take her mind off what she had seen at the Pendleton residence, but when Mr. Lancing once again brought up the topic of true love, she had no choice but to think on her own situation with William.

  The image of William embracing the woman had been painted into her mind and she had no way to clear it away. “What a tangled web we weave,” she whispered as she recalled what she had seen earlier and the mixture of emotions that had accompanied it.

  “What was that?” Mrs. Flanagan asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” Lydia replied as she tried to bring her thoughts back to the discussion at hand. She should have insisted on returning to the house rather than attending the meeting, but Helen had convinced her to go simply to keep her mind off William. The problem was that, to be present in body and not mind was unfair to the group as a whole. She had learned early on that everyone’s input was valuable, and the best way to get the most from the group was to participate. Yet, the more she tried to focus, the more difficult it became.

  The truth was the affection she had for William had strengthened her in so many ways to the point that others were taking notice. The fact that Lady Matilda sent a direct invitation to Lydia was proof of that. Even so, her old self attempted to reclaim its ownership on her emotions, and it took all her strength to keep it from winning the inner battle.

  Before she knew it, Mr. Lancing was making his closing comments. “Before we depart,” he was saying, drawing Lydia from her dark thoughts, “do we have any more discussion from our last meeting on true love?”

  His words were like arrows piercing her heart, and Lydia wanted to scream at him for asking such a thing.